i heard oscar [speaker not understood] brown buffalo footsteps pounding of valencia corridor and he was shouting poetry [speaker not understood] junkies nodding in their wasted [speaker not understood] in the hotel royale, the mission's finest. and even the furniture was angry. and i tell the waiters at the bus stop, the waitresses, the flower sellers, the blind guitarist [speaker not understood] at a purple sky, the shirtless vagrant vagabond ranting at a parking meter, the spray paint visionary setting fire to the word. and i knew this was the last call. we were tired of living from the scraps of others. we were tired of dying for our own chunk of nothing. and i saw this barrio, this city as a freight train. a crazy mexican bus careening out of control, a mutiny aboard the battle ship, and every port hole filled with anger. and we were going to stay angry. and we were not leaving, not ever leaving el corazon [speaker not understood] of the mission. the [speaker not understood] ends here. (applause) >> and i just want to point out that only san francisco do poets get invited to come to